Awakening
by CowgirlMile
Summary: Alex's secrets are becoming harder and harder to keep...
1. Chapter 1

AWAKENING

He is gently skimming his palm over her flat, smooth stomach as the gray pre-dawn light slowly takes the edge off the darkness in her bedroom. His own stomach is pressed to her back, their bodies fitting neatly together as if they were meant to be that way.

She is not asleep, he knows. She is never asleep. He often wakes up at odd hours of the night and pulls her close to him, for reassurance, for comfort…for love. She usually responds with gentle kisses, and he wonders how long she has been awake.

He never asks. She never tells.

He tangles his long fingers in her silky hair, he slides his hand further up her abdomen. His lips find the soft skin of her neck, and he feels her breathing hitch.

Her cell phone rings, loud and jarring. Bobby jumps, his whole body tensing. Alex slides easily out of his arms, her small hand reaching for the offending object on the bedside table. "Eames," she says, her voice hoarse. "At…okay. I…no, it's..." She stops, listening quietly for a moment. Bobby frowns, then reaches out and traces a slow curve down her back. She pushes his hand away. "No, I'll call him." Bobby flops his head back onto the pillow, exhaling sharply. Goddammit. "We'll be right there."

She flips the phone closed, then climbs out of the warm bed and into the early morning chill. Bobby watches her thin silhouette in the pale darkness, watches as her tired limbs search through her drawers for presentable clothing. "Alex," he says, her first name slipping softly off his tongue.

"We have to go," she says, pulling a pair of slacks over the legs he longs to run his hands along, to entangle with his own. "They found a body slashed up in a dumpster by Bryant Park." She rifles through her closet, hangers clickety-clacking against one another. "I told Deakins I'd call you."

His head spins slightly as he sits up, and he takes his time swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He slowly drags his weary body to behind where she stands in front of the mirror, trying to clasp her bra in the dim light. He wraps his large hands around her slender waist, bends his head down and gently nips at her neck. She freezes for a moment, then allows herself to relax, as his warm fingers draw circles on her stomach and his hot mouth takes tiny bites at the hollow of her throat. "Bobby," she whispers, stilling his hands with her own. "We've gotta go."

"I know," he whispers back, planting gentle kisses down her jawline.

She shivers. "Bobby," she says again, a little firmer this time. It is 5:30, and she would like nothing more than to climb back into the warm, soft bed and lose herself in his arms. But there is a body in Bryant Park, and they have to go.

He turns her around and kisses her lips, hard, his hands moving to grasp her bare arms. "Okay," he says, prying himself away from her. "You're like ice."

"Well, if you'd let me get dressed," she sighs, pulling a shirt on. Her fingers fumble wearily with the buttons. "Can I turn the light on?"

He nods reluctantly and retreats to the bathroom. It is going to be a long day.

------

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, stretching out his long legs as she turns the key in the ignition.

She turns to him, eyebrows raised. "Why?" she asks. She doesn't answer the question.

Her eyes move to the rearview mirror as she carefully backs out of the driveway. He studies her face in the dim natural light. "I just…" He pauses, considering his words carefully. "You were awake when I woke up," he says, running his hand through his slowly-graying curls.

She shrugs, but doesn't turn to look at him as she moves the car from "Reverse" to "Drive." "I'm a light sleeper," she says breezily.

He leans his head back against the leather car seat. "You look tired," he presses gently.

She keeps her eyes on the road. "It's pretty early, Bobby. Of course I'm tired."

He lets it go.

------

"We have an ID on our vic," Bobby says, dropping a manila folder onto Alex's desk.

"From what?" she asks, glancing up at her partner in mild surprise. It is 10:30. They have been on this case for four and a half hours. She is only on her second cup of black coffee. They couldn't possibly have identified the victim yet.

Bobby shrugs, sinking down into the chair opposite hers. "His DNA popped in the system," he explains, taking a long swig of his own coffee.

Alex's stomach turns unpleasantly. She carefully sets down her dark blue mug and, hands shaking slightly, opens the folder. She hides her trembling fingers in her lap, under the desk and out of Bobby's scrutinizing gaze. "He was a rapist?" she says weakly.

"Accused," Bobby clarifies. "They didn't have enough evidence to convict."

"Just…" Her voice cracks, almost imperceptibly, and she clears her throat. "Just one count?" she asks, trying to sound as casual as possible. She knows Bobby isn't fooled. She hopes he won't press her.

She avoids his eyes, because she knows he is staring at her. Reading her face. Reading her secrets.

Bobby doesn't speak for a long moment. Alex suddenly feels as if the temperature in the squad room has risen 15 degrees. Her face feels flushed, feverish. She absently pushes up the sleeves of her blouse.

"Just one count," Bobby says, finally, and Alex lets out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. "The accuser had had sex earlier that day with her boyfriend, and the perp wore a condom," he explains, his eyes searching her face. She won't look at him, and he allows his brow to crinkle into a look of puzzlement. "Without DNA evidence, the jury said they couldn't convict."

Alex nods, rapidly. "We should notify the family."

"We should go over there," he says, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Maybe they can help us."

She looks up at him for a split second, and her eyes are stricken. His frown deepens.

"He, uh…" Bobby struggles to find words. "He's married, apparently. They have a four-year-old son."

Alex nods. "Okay. Just—just give me a minute."

She flees the desk as fast as her shaking legs will carry her. In the quiet safety of the dimly lit women's restroom, she hunches over a grimy toilet and expels the contents of her stomach. Tears sting her eyes, and she bites her lip hard and wills them away. She isn't totally sure why she's crying. It's not as if they've never dealt with rape cases before. It isn't as if this case should be any different.

She can't help but feel that it is.

------

...to be continued


	2. Chapter 2

AWAKENING: CHAPTER TWO

Bobby knocks gently on the door to the quaint Brooklyn townhouse. It seems to him an unlikely home for a rapist, but he has learned by now that criminals come in all shapes and sizes. The door is painted a cheery red, the windows shaded by curtains sewn from brightly patterned fabrics. Neatly shaped bonsai trees decorate the small patch of grass that separates the house from the busy sidewalk.

He steals a sideways glance at his partner. Her face is drawn and gray and her hands clutch at the lapels of her black wool peacoat, as if trying to wrap it more tightly around herself. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?" he asks softly.

"Yes," she says. Her voice is steel and sharpened glass, her brown eyes an impenetrable brick wall. "I told you, I just shouldn't have taken Advil on an empty stomach."

The front door swings open and the conversation drops. "Can I help you?" the young, blond-haired, blue-eyed woman in the doorway asks. She is beautiful in an unusual way, although her face is covered in layers of Sephora products. She holds a child in her arms, a little boy with chubby cheeks and tousled brown hair.

Alex almost forgets her line. "I—I'm Detective Eames, NYPD," she finally manages. "This is my partner, Detective Goren. Can we come in?"

The woman frowns. "Um…sure." She steps back to open the door further. "Lucas, why don't you go play in your room for a little while and Mommy will bring you a snack in a few minutes?"

The child studies the two strangers in his house, his mouth set in a determined frown. At last, he nods and allows his mother to set him down. Alex watches as his chunky little legs propel him up the wooden staircase.

"Your husband is Jason Waters," Bobby asks without preamble, striding into the living room as the woman shuts the door behind them. His eyes scan the frames on the mantle, studying the photographs of a happy family life.

"Yes," Mrs. Waters says, crossing her slender arms over her chest. Her frown deepens. "Why?"

"When was the last time you saw him?" Bobby asks.

"Last night," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "He left here after dinner. He's an anesthesiologist at St. Vincent's; he was working the night shift."

Bobby looks to Alex. When she remains strangely quiet, he says, "His body was found this morning in Bryant Park. I'm so sorry Mrs. Waters."

She sinks onto the overstuff leather sofa. "What?"

Alex finally finds her voice again. "He was murdered." She studies the widow carefully, eyes taking in the emotions dancing across her face.

"Are you sure it was Jason?" Mrs. Waters asked. Her voice is weak and unsteady. She looks up at Alex, her eyes filled with desperation. "I mean, how can you be sure?"

Alex has to look away. "We're sure," she says. She is detached and professional, feet planted firmly on the brown-carpeted floor. "We identified him through DNA testing. It's him."

Bobby gives her a sideways glance, and she wonders if she is being too harsh. She bites her lip and studies the picture hanging from the wall above Mrs. Waters' perfectly-coiffed blonde head: the Waters family, picnicking in the park on a perfect summer day. Jason Waters is smiling, his arms around his wife and son. He doesn't look like the kind of man who would drag a woman into an alleyway and terrorize her, but then neither did…

Alex stops herself with an abrupt shake of her head. She cannot go there. Not now. "Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your husband?" she asks.

Mrs. Waters is crying now, tears streaming down her face in tiny rivers, trailing lines through her foundation. "No," she chokes, swiping a hand across her eyes, leaving a shadow of black mascara behind. "No, everyone loved Jason. He…he volunteered at the homeless shelter and he coached our nephew's soccer team and he…" She takes a gasping breath. "He had lots of friends. Nobody would hurt him."

"He was accused of rape three years ago," Alex says evenly.

"That was a lie!" Mrs. Waters shouts, and Alex nearly stumbles backwards from the force of her anger. "That—that _witch_ just wanted money. Jason never hurt anybody!" Mrs. Waters suddenly springs to her feet. Alex stifles a gasp. "It must have been her!" she cries. "She—she wanted to hurt him. I don't know why, but she…she…" She collapses back onto the couch in a fit of grief.

Alex dimly hears Bobby's soothing voice discussing grief counseling and victims' services. She waits in the doorway for him to finish.

She can't be in this house any longer.

------

"What's going on?" Bobby asks cautiously as they walk back to the car.

"Nothing," Alex says casually, pressing the "Unlock" button on her keyring with a little more emphasis than necessary. "I just still have a little bit of a headache."

He doesn't believe her for a second. "Alex, you can talk to me," he persists as she walks around the SUV to the driver's side. He opens his door and climbs into the passenger seat, never removing his eyes from her. "I want to help you," he adds, and she stiffens immediately.

"I don't need help," she bites. "And we're working, Goren. We'll talk later. Now, what's our next move?"

His hands are shaking slightly as he removes Jason Waters' file from his black leather binder. She stares straight out the windshield, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are turning white. "Um…I…" His mind seems to have abandoned him. He struggles for control of his thoughts. "I guess we interview the accuser," he suggests. "Right now she's the only one with a motive to hurt him."

Alex swallows hard. She bites her tongue to avoid screaming, or worse, crying. The wind howls outside, rattling the car windows, and she can't suppress a slight shiver. She wills her hand to turn the key and start the car. "Where to?"

------

Bobby presses the buzzer for Apartment 2C of a small five-floor walk-up on the Lower East Side. Alex leans against the railing behind him, watching the people walk along Orchard Street. There are mothers pushing babies in elaborate strollers and hunched-over old men leaning on canes. School children wearing preppy uniforms and cartoon-character backpacks run along the sidewalk; their laughter rings out like music through the thick, wintry air. Alex takes comfort in the normalcy.

"Hello?" a cheery female voice sings over the intercom.

"This is the NYPD," Bobby responds. "We have a couple of questions for you. May we come up?"

The door buzzes open.

A slightly heavyset, ginger-haired woman is waiting in the doorway of Apartment 2C when they reach the top of the first flight of stairs. She is dressed in a neat business suit; her hands clutch a smart black leather briefcase. "Hi," she greets them, her brow knit in confusion. "Um…can I help you with something?"

"Are you Natalie Leder?" Bobby asks.

"No, I'm Corinne Graham," the woman replies.

Alex frowns. "Do we have the wrong apartment?"

"No, we both live here," Corinne clarifies. "I'm Natalie's roommate. She's not here right now, is there something I can help you with?"

Bobby glances at Alex. "We really need to talk with her, actually," he says. "When will she be home?"

"She's visiting family in San Diego," she explains. "She'll be back tomorrow night."

"When did she leave?" Alex asks.

"Last Saturday," Corinne offers. "She was going for a cousin's Bat Mitzvah or something."

Bobby and Alex exchange glances, and Alex releases the breath she feels as if she's been holding all morning. Natalie can't be the perp. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" Corinne asks. "I just came home for lunch and I really need to get back to work. I can have Natalie give you a call if you want to give me your card."

"Yes," Alex says, her voice shaking with relief. "Yes, have her do that." She tries to control the tremors in her hands as she fishes a business card out of the pocket of her coat. "Thank you."

They walk down the stairs and out of the building. "Well, there goes our only suspect," Bobby sighs. "We don't really need to interview her now, you know."

"I know," Alex says, stepping sideways to avoid a heavily bundled jogger. "I just thought she might like to know."

"Know what?"

"That the man who raped her is dead," she clarifies softly.

Bobby purses his lips in thought and nods. "Do you want to get lunch?" he asks unexpectedly. "We're not really going to get anywhere without the ME report, and we're not far from Katz's Delicatessen."

Alex smiles, and suddenly the weight on her shoulders feels a little lighter. "I'll call Deakins and let him know we'll be back later," she says.

Bobby reaches for her hand and squeezes it. Together they round the corner and head for Houston Street.

------

Deakins is on the phone in his office when they return, but he knocks on the window, motioning them in before they can sit down at their desks. Alex feels the contented fullness of pastrami on rye and sour pickles fade into a nervous queasiness as they step inside, closing the door behind them.

"I'm going to send them over in a minute," Deakins is saying into the phone. Bobby lowers his lanky frame into a chair, but Alex stands rigidly behind him. "I will…yes. Thanks." He hangs up the phone and sighs, sinking into his own chair.

"Okay," he says to them, sighing deeply. "That was the ME. She'd like you to stop by when you get a chance."

"She find anything interesting?" Bobby asks, leaning his head back wearily.

Deakins shrugs. "She didn't mention anything specific. But I found something." Both detectives stare at him. "I ran the MO through the database. Specifically, I searched for accused rapists slashed to death in the five boroughs." He glances from Alex, whose face is white as a ghost, to Bobby, whose forehead is furrowed in concentration. He hands Bobby a small stack of manila files. "There've been four other murders with the exact same MO, all committed within the last year. Looks like you've got a serial on your hands."

------

…to be continued

Thank you so much for the kind reviews! Reading them makes me happy!


	3. Chapter 3

Awakenings, Part III

I apologize for the long delay between parts. The rough draft of my senior thesis was due this week, and everything's been a little crazy. This part is probably a little bit slow, but I believe it will pick up soon.

------

Alex sits miserably in the situation room they have commandeered, watching Bobby study the files spread over the table. They have been here for hours, searching for connections between the victims, collecting cold case notes from various homicide detectives, and inspecting photo after photo after photo of gruesome crimes.

They are no farther than they were five hours ago. All they know is that all five victims were accused rapists. All were acquitted. All five judges cited a lack of conclusive evidence.

Bobby is drawing complicated patterns on a three foot by four foot map of the five boroughs mounted on the whiteboard. He is searching for connections between the five women who accused the victims of rape. He is comparing wound patterns and looking for signatures and formulating theories.

And Alex watches him. She listens to him talk without offering affirmation or even input. She dutifully googles the information he throws at her, responsibly pulls up maps and addresses and websites on survivor support groups. She calls preachers and hospitals and law firms as he directs her.

But there are no connections. There is no logical explanation, no easy solution.

"Bobby, can we get out of here?" she asks finally. It is nearly 9:00, and the lights from the Brooklyn Bridge are twinkling through the window. Bobby has not noticed this. He does not realize that they have been in this small, stuffy conference room for nearly six hours. He does not know that neither of them has eaten in seven hours, or that they have been awake for more than 16.

And so her request comes as a surprise, and he looks up at her in confusion. "Are you okay?" he asks quickly, his mouth melting into a concerned frown.

She rolls her eyes. "Well, I'm a little hungry," she says pointedly. "And I'm exhausted. "And it's already 9:00, and I have no doubt that you'll want to be in here by 7:00 tomorrow morning so we can begin interviewing witnesses. So, yes, I'm okay. But I would like to go home."

"Oh," Bobby says. "Uh…okay." He closes the file in his hand and places it on top of the pile. "Is, uh…is the Captain still here?"

Alex raises her eyebrows and stifles a laugh. "He left three hours ago," she says bluntly. "He told us to go home. You said you had one more file we needed to review."

Bobby looks genuinely perplexed. "Oh," he says, opening the door to the situation room and leading her out. "Well, then, let's go home. We can start interviewing the accusers tomorrow."

Alex bites her lip as Bobby helps her with her jacket. She is somewhat relieved that her back is to him. "You think that's the best place to start?" She aims for casual and professional.

If her tone of voice is strange, Bobby doesn't comment. "I think it's the only thing we have to go on right now," he sighs, shrugging into his own coat.

She stuffs her hands into her pockets and follows him meekly to the elevator. She doesn't think she has ever been this tired before.

------

He steers her into their favorite hole-in-the-wall sushi bar, just three blocks from his small Upper West Side apartment building. "The usual?" he asks, as they settle onto overly cushioned barstools at the lacquered wooden counter.

She smiles, unfolding the crisp white napkin in front of her and smoothing it across her lap. "Have you known me to order something different?"

He rolls his eyes comically. "I just thought that perhaps my recent lectures on the importance of being open to new ideas might have inspired you to break out of your sushi box."

Alex raises a quizzical eyebrow. "I'll stick with my spicy tuna roll and miso soup, thank you."

Bobby orders their sushi from the gruff-looking Japanese man behind the counter, then turns back to his partner. "I think we should start our interviews with the accuser of the first victim," he says contemplatively. "Rebecca Portland. We can call her tomorrow morning and--"

"Stop," she cuts him off abruptly, placing her cold palm gently against the warmth of his cheek. "Please? I don't wanna talk about the case now."

He leans into her hand, closes his eyes and breathes deeply, then turns and brushes his lips softly against her palm. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "You know how I get." He takes her small hand in both of his, curling his long, lean fingers around her knuckle. "Let's talk about something else."

She nods, relieved. "Thank you."

They talk about her nephew, about his desire to go to Hawaii, about how the weather changes in New England, and about the silly movie they watched together on Tuesday night. They rub the splinters off their wooden chopsticks and eat sushi and drink green tea, and Alex laughs as Bobby puts too much wasabi in his soy sauce and nearly chokes. He plays it off by swallowing an entire glass of water in one gulp. Alex laughs, and feels the clouds above her head clearing just a little bit.

They are midway through small bowls of ginger ice cream when Bobby sets her heart churning again. "So are you going to tell me what's going on?"

She almost chokes. "What do you mean?" she asks, delicately setting the cold glass bowl down.

He shrugs, deliberately maintaining a slight distance. "You've just seemed stressed all day," he says nonchalantly. He swallows a large spoonful of ice cream to prevent himself from saying anything he might regret.

Alex darts her eyes around the crowded restaurant. "I've just had a headache," she says, for what feels like the twentieth time today. "I'm just a little bit tired."

Bobby nods. "Then we should go home," he says carefully. "Get some sleep."

She smiles with relief. "Yeah," she says, nodding her head vigorously. "Yeah, let's go home."

------

Tonight it is Bobby who cannot sleep. The clock is blinking 3:34 as he lies awake in the chilly darkness of his bedroom, propped up on his elbow, watching the faint but steady rise and fall of Alex's chest beneath the thick down comforter. Her blonde hair is ringed in red from the numbers on the digital clock on the bedside table, an eerie halo.

He forces himself to lay his head on the pillow and close his eyes. _She is fine_, he tells himself. He clenches his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out to her. _She is fine_, he repeats in his head. _Just tired_.

His stomach is doing flips, and he chalks it up to the sushi. He opens his eyes to check that she is still breathing, then bites his lip to punish himself. _She's FINE_, his brain tells him vehemently. She would hate it if she knew how worried he was.

He closes his eyes again and forces himself to relax. He breathes deeply: in through his nose, out through his mouth. He releases his fists.

And suddenly, Alex rolls over and moans weakly, flinging her arm out and catching him in the stomach with her small fist. Bobby gasps. "Alex?"

"No," she whispers. In the faint light coming through the window from the streetlights, Bobby can make out the tear tracks on her cheeks. "Please, don't."

"Alex," he says urgently, placing a gentle hand against her shoulder. "Alex, you're having a bad dream. Wake up." He runs his palm carefully along the bare skin of her arm.

"No!" she shrieks, sitting up with a start. Bobby jumps out of the way, narrowly avoiding bumping heads.

He is shaking as he watches her, gasping for air, looking around frantically, sinking her teeth into her thumb in an effort to calm her panic. "Alex," he tries, fighting his own bubbling panic. "I…are you…" He cannot come up with the right words.

"I'm fine," she says, her voice trembling. "I…just…bad dream. I'm sorry, did I wake you?" She looks at him with a mask designed to be reassuring and apologetic, but even in the dim light he can tell it's a lie.

"No," he assures her. "I couldn't sleep." He rubs a hand gently up and down her back, and she seems to relax slightly. "Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks quietly, after a long moment of thick silence.

Her entire body tenses, and Bobby immediately withdraws his hand. "No!" she says, too quickly. "No," she repeats, taking great care to keep her voice steady and even. She runs a shaking hand through her hair. "It was nothing. Just…silly. It was nothing." She swings her legs over the side of the bed and walks around, towards the bathroom.

"Alex," he calls weakly after her.

"I just need some water," she snaps. "Okay? I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to bed."

She closes the bathroom door behind her. Bobby can hear the sound of the lock engaging, then the tap being turned on. Over the flow of water, he can hear his partner weeping quietly.

------

...to be continued

A.N: Have we ever been told where, exactly, Bobby lives? Well, I grew up on the Upper West Side…so now he lives there. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Awakening, Chapter 4

Wow, I really suck at updating in a timely manner. All I can say is that the end of college is stressful. And scary. BUT, I have a completed thesis! So, that's exciting.

And I just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this story!! Everyone's reviews have been so thoughtful and positive, and it's been really nice to read.

So, without further ado…

------

The clock reads 9:21 as Alex carefully steers the SUV out of the parking garage. "Where am I going?" she asks, guiding the vehicle into Manhattan's rush hour traffic.

"1501 Broadway," Bobby reads off the notes he has scrawled on the yellow legal pad in his black leather binder. "She's an assistant to a theater producer."

"Right in the middle of Times Square," Alex grumbles. "Great." She flips her sunglasses over her weary eyes, even though the day has again dawned gray and gloomy. "It would be faster to just take the subway," she comments idly as she tries to make a right turn through a sea of harried pedestrians.

"We can't bring anyone in on the subway," Bobby reminds her distractedly, tapping his fingers against the armrest between their leather seats and studying her impassive face. He is in no mood for New York small talk.

"Have you talked to Lewis lately?" she asks, changing the subject so abruptly that Bobby withdraws slightly in surprise. She keeps her eyes studiously glued to Sixth Avenue.

Bobby shakes his head rapidly in confusion. "Uh, no," he manages finally. "I—no."

"We should invite him for dinner one night," she says, aiming for casual and missing wildly. She sounds increasingly like a nervous 16-year-old on her first date. "It would be nice to see him again."

"Eames," Bobby tries, leaning closer to her.

"Maybe this weekend," she continues, before he can say anything else. Her hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are turning white. "We're supposed to go to my parents' house for my mom's birthday on Saturday, but maybe Sunday night, if you want. You should call him."

"Alex," he says patiently, ignoring her empty ramblings. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," she says, too quickly, breaking hard to avoid running a red light at the intersection of 28th Street and Sixth Avenue. Bobby braces a hand against the glove compartment. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he says softly. She is shaking slightly, breathing as if she's just run up a few flights of stairs. "It's okay," he repeats, as much to himself as to her.

The light turns green, and she cautiously steps on the gas.

He opens his mouth again, then closes it. They are only a few blocks from their destination. Now is not the time or place to press her. "Eames, I can do this interview, if you're too tired, or…"

She turns to look at him for the first time as she steers the car onto 44th Street. Her face is stricken. "I…" she says, and for a moment he thinks she might cry. Her eyes harden suddenly. "Are you questioning my abilities?" she asks. Her voice is dripping with barely concealed anger.

Bobby sighs and turns away from her bitter eyes. "Of course not," he says gently. "I just…I can't help worrying, I'm sorry."

"I'm fine," she says harshly, then sighs. Her features soften. "I'm sorry," she says quietly, steering the SUV into a no-parking zone on Seventh Avenue. "I…everything's fine, Bobby."

"Would you tell me if it wasn't?" he asks. He runs a gentle finger down her cheek as she shifts into park.

She gives him a weary smile. "Of course I would," she says. She leans across the console and touches her lips to his. He is startled by her unusual display of affection. "Let's go do this," she says.

He watches her climb out of the car, her kiss still lingering on his lips.

------

"We're looking for Rebecca Portland," Eames announces to the receptionist in Suite 1604. She flashes her badge with a confident swagger, and Bobby sighs in nervous relief at the return of his partner.

The thin, pale-skinned woman sitting at the cluttered desk knits her eyebrows in confusion. "That's me," she says, running long white fingers through her thick black hair. "I…uh…can I help you?"

Bobby allows his eyes to wander the office as Eames explains the purpose of their visit. The chic suite is simply decorated with window cards of well-known Broadway musicals and signed photos of smiling actors. Stacks of _Vanity Fair _and _Entertainment Weekly_ are piled on the coffee table near the entrance.

"I…how did my name come up in a murder investigation?" Rebecca Portland is asking, when Bobby tunes back into the conversation. He watches her fidget with the gold cross on the chain around her neck.

"One of the victims was Andrew Polarski." Bobby speaks up for the first time, lowering his lanky frame onto the black leather couch across from Rebecca's desk.

She stiffens, clenching her hands into fists. Bobby can see her long red nails digging into the flesh of her palms. "He's dead?" she says tightly. Her face is unreadable.

"Yes, he was killed almost eleven months ago," Eames offers, leaning against the wall. Her blond hair rests next to an autographed headshot of Christian Slater.

"Good," she whispers. "Good."

"Can you tell us about what happened?" Bobby asks. Eames' head whirls around to face him. Her face is stricken. He frowns.

"About…the rape?" Rebecca clarifies. Alex turns back to her, eyes wide. "I—yeah, I guess I can. It's been a long time since I…" She pauses for a moment, then gives Bobby a small smile. "It's been a long time since I talked about that." She looks around the suite. "Let's go in my boss' office," she offers. "He won't be in for a while."

They sink into wooden guest chairs around a small, round table. Rebecca brings them fresh mugs of coffee and a handful of Mini Moo's. "We have sugar somewhere too," she offers. "If you want. No one around here really takes sugar, but I guess I could find some."

"This is fine," Eames assures her. She stirs the cream into her coffee absently, then wraps her hands tightly around the steaming mug, hoping Bobby won't notice that her whole body is trembling.

Rebecca Portland sits down at the empty chair and faces the two detectives. "Well," she says, folding her hands on the glass tabletop and smiling weakly. "Where should I start?"

------

The thin young woman keeps her deep-set blue eyes on Alex as she tells her story. She spares no details of the rape and torture that Andrew Polarski subjected her to. She bravely talks of going to the hospital, of repeating her story to countless police officers and lawyers and social workers and therapists. She tells of the nausea that engulfed her body as Andrew Polarski was acquitted. She recounts to the detectives how he winked at her as he walked out of the courtroom, a free man.

"Thank you for sharing that with us," Bobby says gently, when the words cease. "It's taken a lot of courage for you to…to get to where you are now."

She nods, and turns her eyes to Bobby for the first time. "I've worked really hard. I'm over it. I'm over him." Rebecca turns back to Alex. "But it still makes me feel better to know that he's dead. That he can't hurt me anymore."

Alex is clutching the armrests of her chair. She can taste the bile in the back of her throat. Images are rushing at her faster than her mind can process. She opens her mouth to say something—just what, she isn't sure—and all that comes out is a strangled whimper. She can feel Bobby giving her a funny look, but she doesn't dare meet his eyes.

"Yes, thank you," she finally manages. Her stomach hurts. She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly unable to stop herself from shivering. "I—do you mind if I use your bathroom?" she asks.

"Of course not," Rebecca says, frowning. "It's just down the hallway. There's a key on my desk."

It is all she can do to stop herself from fleeing

Bobby watches his partner go, his heart churning with worry. He doesn't know what is going on. He doesn't know why she won't tell him. "Is she okay?" Rebecca Portland's thin clear voice invades his thoughts. He jolts his attention back to the present, back to the case.

"She's fine," he says dismissively. "I just have one more question. Where were you on Saturday night between 10 PM and midnight?"

"I was at the movies," she replies, her voice turning cold. "And then I went home."

"Were you with anyone?" he presses.

Her eyes narrow, and she pushes herself into a standing position. "I have a hard time with relationships, Detective," she says derisively. "I went alone."

------

"Can we stop for coffee before we interview the next accuser?" Alex asks as they step out of the lobby and into the chaos of Times Square. "There's a Starbucks right across the street."

They stand in front of the heavy gold doors on the sidewalk of Broadway. Bobby watches the swarm of tourists climbing down from a red double-decker tour bus and heading for the Hard Rock Café and MTV Studios. He shakes his head.

"We can get coffee," he says, waving away the flier a man wearing a billboard tries to stick in his face. "But I don't think we need to interview the next accuser. Not yet, anyway."

Alex startles. "What? What do you want to do next?"

"I want to check out her alibi," Bobby decides. "Rebecca Portland. Something about her…I just have a hunch."

------

More to come! I promise!


	5. Chapter 5

Awakening, Part 5

Wow, so much faster this time! This is what happens when 90 pages of thesis are printed, bound and handed in! It would have been even faster, but I was away for the weekend. Thank you all for the kind reviews (and boohoo, for the encouragement!) I can't say enough how much I appreciate it. It really makes me want to keep posting.

And now…part five.

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They spend the day chasing Bobby's hunch. They walk over to Bryant Park, where laughing children are taking advantage of the last days of the free ice rink in the center of the Green, and re-interview the maintenance crew that discovered Jason Waters' body. No one recognizes Rebecca Portland's face. They are sorry they can't be of more help.

They meet with a witness who remembers seeing a thin, dark-haired woman jogging up Fifth Avenue around midnight. She may have had blood on her, but it was dark, and he was a little drunk, and he can't quite remember. He studies the headshot Alex is carrying. It could be her, but maybe not. He can't be sure. He is sorry he can't be of more help.

They drive up to the Paris Theater and learn that yes, Rebecca Portland did purchase a ticket for the 9:10 showing of _The Last King of Scotland_. She paid with a credit card. The cashier thinks she may have left early. But maybe not. He was on the phone with his girlfriend, and he can't be sure. He is sorry he can't be of more help.

They visit the morgue, where the ME reports that the 47 stab wounds that killed Jason Waters were inflicted by a right-handed person with a tremendous amount of rage. She believes that Jason Waters knew his killer. Rodgers wishes she could had something more useful. She is sorry she can't be of more help.

They finally return to the eleventh floor of One Police Plaza at 6:30. Alex's feet are hurting. She feels sick to her stomach. She heads directly for the water cooler and swallows six paper cones of cold, soothing water, one after the other.

Bobby is taping headshots to the whiteboard when she finally joins him in the conference room. He barely looks up when she enters. "According to the ME reports, all five men were killed by righties," he explains, ripping a piece of scotch tape off the roll and applying it to a mug shot of Andrew Polarski.

"Well, that really narrows it down," Alex comments sardonically, sinking gratefully into a chair.

"All were killed by someone with a tremendous amount of rage," Bobby reads from his notes. "All likely knew their attackers."

"Doesn't that mean this isn't a serial killer, given that there were no connections between the five men?" Alex asks. "Or, at least, that it isn't Rebecca Portland. We have nothing connecting her to any of the victims except Andrew Polarski."

"I don't believe the victims necessarily knew their killers," Bobby says, arranging files on the table. "I believe that the killer knew the victims, but not necessarily vice versa."

And suddenly, Alex knows where he is going. "I—we have no evidence!" she stutters.

"I think we can get a confession," Bobby says seriously. "I think Rebecca Portland killed all five of these men."

"You have no evidence!" Alex blurts again, leaping to her feet. "We haven't even interviewed any of the other witnesses! We've barely looked at the other three murders!"

"The most important one was the first one," Bobby says, and she can see the gears in his head turning. "The first one…" He trails off for a moment. "The first one mattered to her. She killed her rapist." He is rolling now, and there is no stopping him, even though she wants to throw something—anything—at his smug little head. "She killed her rapist to take back the control he'd taken from her. The first one was the most brutal," he points out. "She cut off his penis, gauged out his eyes. She cut off his hands. She wanted him to suffer the most."

"That doesn't make any sense," Alex counters, unconsciously backing away from him. "So she killed her rapist. Why kill the others?"

"Something happened when she killed Polarski," Bobby theorizes. He is in his own world, pacing deliberately back and forth in front of the whiteboard. "She felt…a sense of control. Of power. It was a feeling she hadn't had since he took it from her…when he raped her."

"You don't know that. You don't know that!" Alex shakes her head furiously. Anger floods her. "She said she'd moved on. She said she'd gotten over it!"

Bobby barely hears her. "She felt powerful for the first time in years, and so she kept going. She found other rapists who hadn't been brought to justice…and she kept going." He opens one of the files. "The killings are getting closer and closer together. She's escalating." He puts his knuckles to his mouth, contemplating. "She's like a drug addict, and killing rapists is her drug," he murmurs.

Alex is still shaking her head. "You have no evidence," she says, and she is unsure if she is whispering or shouting. "You don't know that. You got that hunch from talking to her for half an hour? You don't know that! There's no evidence!"

The door to the conference room flies open, and Deakins appears, frowning in confusion. He looks from Bobby to Alex, then back to Bobby. "Everything okay in here?"

"Everything's fine," Alex says shortly, before Bobby can open his mouth.

Deakins nods slowly. "How did today go?"

Alex lowers herself back into her chair. "Okay," she says, struggling to find her professionalism. "We, uh…we interviewed the accuser of the first victim."

"And?" he asks, sitting down across from her.

"I think she killed them," Bobby says firmly, pointing to the picture of Rebecca Portland taped to the whiteboard. "I think she killed all of them. Andrew Polarski raped her, humiliated her." He taps his pen against the file labeled "Portland, Rebecca" in Alex's perfect handwriting. "He took away her control, and the only way she could take it back was by recreating the attack. Only this time, with him as the victim."

He looks to Alex for confirmation, denial, anything. He waits for her to continue his thought. She says nothing. She is sitting ramrod straight, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that suddenly he forgets about the case, forgets his argument, and it is all he can do to keep from going to her. "Alex?" he says.

"I don't think it was her," she says. Her voice trembles so slightly that only Bobby notices. His heart beats anxiously and he tries to catch her eye.

Deakins looks at Bobby and frowns. He is staring at his partner as if she has grown a second head, his eyes alight with worry. Deakins turns his gaze to Alex, who is chewing anxiously on her lip. For a moment, he has the bizarre and ridiculous fear that she might start to cry. "What is going on here?" he demands.

Alex shakes her head quickly, angrily. "She has no motive!" she cries. "She's moved on with her life. Why would she go back?" She digs her nails into her palm, wishing they weren't bitten down to almost nothing. "She has no motive to kill Polarski," she repeats, "and she certainly has no motive to hunt down the other four. How would she even know they were accused rapists?"

"It's public record," Bobby reminds her carefully. "And I—the way she told us that story today…this isn't someone who's moved on with her life, Captain." He addresses Deakins although his eyes are focused on Alex. "This is someone who is still very much…" He pauses, trying to choose his words carefully. "Obsessed," he settles on. "She is still dwelling on what happened to her."

"She has an alibi for the Waters murder," Alex says accusingly. Her head is aching. She needs to get out of this conference room before she suffocates.

Bobby bites his lip and shakes his head back and forth. "A shaky one. The guy at the movie theater thought she might have left early. And we have a witness in the park who thought he saw a girl matching Rebecca Portland's description running up Fifth Ave, a block from where Waters' body was found."

"I am not persecuting a rape victim!" Alex grits through clenched teeth. She jumps out of her chair, nearly knocking it over in the process, and stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Deakins and Bobby watch her go in shocked silence.

"What's going on?" Deakins asks quietly, after they have watched her flee the bullpen.

Bobby shrugs dumbly. "I don't know," he says. "I…" He shakes his head. "She's not talking to me. She won't tell me anything." He jumps out of his chair and paces restlessly. "She's empathizing with the rape victims," he murmurs. He cannot mention the nightmare she had last night, or the rambling small talk this morning. He doesn't tell the captain about the way she bolted from the room after Rebecca Portland described her attack. He can't talk about the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he looks at her pale, drawn face.

Deakins shrugs. "She's a woman," he points out rhetorically.

"No," Bobby says firmly, pinching his lips between his thumb and forefinger. "It's more than that." He scrubs his hand over his face, sighing in exhaustion and frustration. "I'm going to go try and talk to her."

"Take the rest of the day off," Deakins offers. Bobby almost laughs: it is nearly 7:00 PM. "Well, what's left of it anyway. We can talk to Carver in the morning about getting a warrant."

Bobby shakes his head. "I don't know if we have enough for a warrant," he sighs. "It's just a feeling I have."

Deakins nods. "We'll talk about it tomorrow," he says. "Go talk to Alex."

------

He finally finds her, nearly 20 minutes later, in the basement firing range of One Police Plaza, shooting round after round into the outlined chest of a target. He waits until she empties the clip. "Nice grouping."

She jumps at his voice, then without turning to look at him, reloads her gun. "Go home, Bobby."

He reaches out and covers her hands with his own larger ones, stopping her. "I'm worried about you," he says softly, dipping his head to catch her eyes. "Talk to me, Alex. Please."

Her hands play with the hem of his jacket for a long moment before she finally looks at him. Her face softens. "I'm okay," she promises weakly. She holsters her gun and wraps her arms around him. He pulls her tightly against his body, breathing her in like oxygen. "I'm sorry if I've made you worry. You don't have to."

"But I do," he whispers into her hair.

They stand there for minutes, hours, days. "Come home with me," he says finally. "Let me make you dinner."

Alex nods into his chest and pulls away. She lets him hold her hand as they walk to the parking garage. He offers to drive, and she doesn't protest.

She doesn't tell him anything.

------

He unlocks the door to his apartment with a leather-gloved hand, compiling a mental list of what is in his refrigerator and cupboards. His mind is busily creating recipes as he closes the door behind them. "How about that chicken and cashew dish I made a few weeks ago," he asks absently, unwrapping his wool scarf. "You liked that, right? I could—"

He is cut off by her lips crashing against his in a bruising kiss. Her small body crushes his much larger one against the wooden door with surprising force. "Alex," he chokes, pulling his mouth from hers. "Alex, let me make dinner first." Her teeth are taking needy bites from his thick neck, her little hands are busily pulling at the buttons of his overcoat. "You need to eat, Alex," he says desperately, trying to stop her motions.

"I need you," she says roughly, shrugging off his attempt to push her away. "Please, Bobby." Her voice is pained, desperate. It is breaking his heart.

"You haven't eaten all day," he says weakly, trying not to moan as her lithe fingers untuck his starched white shirt from his dress pants and begin to wander along the muscles of his back. "Alex," he protests faintly as her fingertips caress him. His resolve is rapidly fading, and he knows she can feel it. He allows his hands to stroll up her back under her fitted silk shirt. "Promise you'll let me make you dinner after," he whispers in her ear, moving his mouth to her collarbone.

She moans, gripping his shirt for support as her knees go weak. She doesn't answer him.

------

…to be continued!


	6. Chapter 6

Awakening, Part Six

------

Thank you all again for the reviews. As I've said, they are much appreciated, and it feels really good to hear that people are enjoying my story!

If this chapter feels a little rushed, I'm sorry, I'm getting as impatient as you all are! I also haven't really proofread it, so…sorry! Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys this!

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They arrive at work bright and early the next morning to find a search warrant, printed and signed, on Alex's desk. "What is this?" she asks uncomfortably, although she already knows the answer.

"Judge Myerson believed that there was probable cause for a search warrant," Carver answers. Alex jumps at his voice.

"Oh," she says. This is supposed to be good, she reminds herself, but all she can think about is what it's going to feel like to invade that poor woman's house, her memories, her trauma. "I—based on what?"

Bobby sits down cautiously at his desk across from her, his eyes following the exchange.

"The witness who claims he saw her running up Fifth Avenue late at night," Carver explains, folding his arms across his chest. "Her uncertain alibi, and your interview with her yesterday. It was enough to convince a judge."

Alex nods, her body immobile. "Oh."

The silence that follows is thick and painful. Finally, Carver clears his throat. "Detectives, do you plan on executing the search warrant?"

"Yes," Bobby says. He unfolds himself from his chair. "Alex?"

She shakes her head suddenly, jarringly. "Yeah. Okay. Uh…okay."

------

When they arrive at Rebecca Portland's small East Village loft, Bobby heads directly for the bedroom. Alex aimlessly wanders into the kitchen, where she opens the refrigerator, as if the solution to the mystery will be found in Chinese leftovers and moldy Parmesan cheese. She gestures to the large display of carving knives on the kitchen counter. "Bag those," she orders the CSU tech standing at her shoulder.

She pulls open drawers and examines the Spartan décor. There are no posters, no prints of Van Gogh or Picasso or Kandinsky, no photographs of family picnics or trips to Disney World. The walls are white and sterile, the kitchen floor an austere gray tile.

The apartment makes Alex sad. She contemplates what it feels like to have no color, no love in your life. She can hear Bobby's footsteps as he makes his way around the bedroom, and she is tempted to walk in and wrap her arms around his waist and lean her weary head against his chest.

Instead, she walks into the similarly plain living room. She sits down on the simple black couch and reaches for the shoebox on top of the wooden coffee table, the only sort of ornamentation in the utilitarian room. She slides the top off the box to reveal a stack of newspaper clippings.

Carefully, she lays the yellowed pages on the table, and her heart begins to beat faster. The clippings are about rapists and rape trials. Alex looks at a New York Times article about Andrew Polarski's acquittal. She scans a Post article about the arrest of one of the other rapists.

There are articles about all five murders. She lays them out carefully, one on top of the other. "Bobby?" she calls weakly.

He materializes behind her. "What've you got?"

She gestures to the evidence spread out before her. "You were right," she says softly. "You were right."

------

Rebecca Portland storms into the bullpen, eyes flashing angrily. "You searched my apartment?" she shouts.

Bobby and Alex look up from the newspaper clippings spread across their joined desks. "Ms. Portland," Bobby greets.

"My neighbor called me," she says furiously. "What gave you the right to search my apartment?" she demands. "Without me there?"

"Ms. Portland, let's talk in there," Bobby asks politely, pointing towards the interview room.

She turns on her heel and stalks into the small room. Bobby and Alex follow her.

"Please, sit," he offers, gesturing towards the chair. Rebecca does, her face twisted with rage. Alex sits down across from her, while Bobby paces anxiously. "Ms. Portland, we executed a search of your apartment after a witness claimed to have seen you running from Bryant Park at midnight the night of Jason Waters' murder."

"Well, that witness is wrong," she clips.

"Upon searching your apartment, we found a box of newspaper clippings," Bobby says slowly, circling the table like a vulture spotting its prey. Rebecca's face changes, almost imperceptibly. "I won't get into the contents of this box, but I'm sure you know what's in it."

"My therapist suggested it!" Rebecca snapped, but her anger has taken on a hint of desperation. "She told me it would help me…learning about others who had gone through what I did."

"Did she tell you to collect clippings of murders?" Bobby wonders. He leans over and studies Rebecca's face from inches away. "I thought you didn't know Polarski was dead."

Rebecca shifts uncomfortably. "I didn't want you to think I was crazy for following that stuff," she says. Her voice is nervous, and both Bobby and Alex can tell that she is lying.

Bobby backs up and paces toward the wall. "You know, Rebecca, most serial killers we see catalog their work." He pinches his lips between his fingers in thought. "They keep newspaper clippings, take photos, take…trophies." He dangles one of the clippings in her face.

"I am not a serial killer!" she explodes, slamming her fist against the metal table. Alex leans back, away from her anger.

"We don't usually see rape victims…saving clippings about their attacks," he muses. "About the attacks of others." He shakes his head. "Usually, rape victims want to…get on with their lives." He leans into Rebecca's personal space, his eyes taunting.

"You have no idea what it feels like!" she shouts. Bobby stands his ground. "You have no idea what it feels like to be dragged into an alleyway with a gun to your head, and raped, and beaten, and…and humiliated!" She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "You have no idea!"

"But I do," Alex says quietly, so quietly that Deakins and Carver, watching from the other side of the two-way mirror, aren't certain that they've heard her correctly. Both Bobby and Rebecca freeze and turn to gape at her. The silence is suffocating; it is as if every molecule in the room has ceased to vibrate. "I do," she repeats, her voice stronger.

Bobby studies his partner's familiar face, praying for some sort of indication that this is a trick, that she is lying to extract a confession. There is none, and his heart almost stops beating when he realizes that she is telling the truth. _No!_ his mind screams. "Alex," he chokes, forgetting where they are, forgetting what is happening.

She doesn't look at him. Her eyes remain focused on Rebecca, who, in turn, is watching her in near-astonishment.

"You were raped?" Rebecca asks softly. Alex nods. Bobby grips the edge of the table for support. His mind is reeling. He digs his nails into his palms. He wants to scream. He wants to hit something. Instead, he tries valiantly to control his breathing as Rebecca asks, "Was it someone you knew?"

Alex shakes her head. "He grabbed me while I was walking home at night," she says. Her voice is firm and steady, and if Bobby wasn't absolutely certain he was going to throw up, he might be proud of her strength.

"What happened?" Rebecca asks uncertainly.

Alex moves her eyes toward the table. "I was walking home by myself," she says. "I shouldn't have been. It was late, and I…" She shakes her head. "He grabbed me. Dragged me behind a dumpster and…he had a knife." She shrugs, looking back up toward their suspect. "It happened."

"Was he ever caught?" Rebecca asks. Her eyes are watching Alex with new understanding.

Alex shakes her head. "I didn't report it," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I just…couldn't."

Bobby needs to get out of this interrogation room before he explodes. Before he punches a hole in the wall. Before he bursts into hysterical tears.

"I reported it," Rebecca says, her voice rising. "I did everything you're supposed to do; I did everything right." She shakes her head. "It didn't seem fair that he got to live when I couldn't," she says, her voice cracking. "Because I was dead inside, and he got to go on living as if nothing had happened…hurting other people."

"Did it feel good?" Alex asks, and Bobby gets the impression that she really wants to know.

Rebecca nods, tears slipping down her cheeks. "It made me feel powerful." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I didn't mean to kill Andrew Polarski, it just…it just happened. And afterward…it was the first time since—since it happened that I felt like I was in control of my life again."

"Is that why you kept going?" Alex asks gently. "Is that why you killed those other four rapists?"

"It was like I couldn't stop myself," Rebecca says softly, and she is crying hard now. "It was the only thing that made me feel like myself again. And each time…I'd feel better for a while, and then it would all come creeping back again." She looks up at Alex. "You know."

Alex nods. "Yeah." She wills her shaking legs to stand. "Thank you, Rebecca." She manages to walk out of the room. She can't stay there any longer.

Bobby waits until Rebecca has been led out of the room in handcuffs before heading for the door. The adrenaline has worn off, and his whole body is trembling.

Deakins and Carver greet him in the bullpen. "Where is she?" he asks dully. His voice is wet with unshed tears.

"In the lounge," Deakins supplies.

"Did she say anything?" Bobby asks, and he feels like a little boy struggling not to cry in front of his father.

"No. You didn't know?" he asks gently.

"No," Bobby says, leaning against the wall for support. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Did—did you?" Deakins shakes his head. "I need to find her."

She is leaning against the window in the lounge, her forehead pressed against the cold glass, her back to him. He takes a deep, shaking breath as he opens the lounge door, and reminds himself that now is not the time to break something, or to scream, or even to cry. She needs him. He needs to help her.

She doesn't turn around at the sound of the door opening. He crosses the room in two strides and places a warm, steady hand on her small, fragile back. She flinches slightly, but doesn't pull away, and he allows himself to relax. "Alex," he says gently, needing to break the silence. Her shoulders are trembling, and he realizes that she is crying. "Let's get out of here," he whispers.

"I'm okay," she says, swiping a hand across her eyes. Bobby reaches for that hand and wraps it in his own. She looks up at him, startled.

"You're not," he says. "And I'm not. And it's okay not to be okay now." He studies her tear filled eyes. "Let's go home, all right?"

She watches him for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."

------

…to be continued, hopefully sooner this time.


	7. Chapter 7

Awakening: Part Seven

------

A/N: Sorry for the excessively long delay! I've been a bit busy, graduating college and moving out into the real world :). I'm also leaving in a few weeks for Cambodia for the Peace Corps, so there's lots of stuff to do.

This was a very difficult part to write, and I'm not sure I'm completely satisfied with it. I hope you all enjoyed it. Thanks to everyone for the reviews (and the congratulations!). I really appreciate them all.

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Bobby makes a mug of hot chocolate with a shot of peppermint Schnapps. He searches his cabinets until he finds a half-empty box of candy canes, left over from Christmas. He unwraps one and places it in the mug as a stirrer. He opens a bag of mini marshmallows and sprinkles a few on top. He folds a clean white napkin into a neat square.

He peaks into his living room, and is both relieved and terrified to find that she is still there. She is curled into the corner of his black leather couch, wearing his oversized flannel pajama pants, rolled up three times, and a grey zip-up sweatshirt. Her eyes are staring vacantly at the wall.

Bobby takes a deep breath, then walks purposefully into the living room and sets the steaming mug on a coaster on the end table next to Alex. He stands in front of her for a long moment, waiting for her to look at him. She doesn't, and he shifts uncomfortably, unsure of whether or not he should sit next to her. He finally sinks down beside her, leaving a few inches of space between them in case she needs it.

The silence is suffocating.

"I made you hot chocolate," he says obviously, needing some sort of noise, some sort of activity. "With peppermint Schnapps, just like you like it. I can make you food too, if you'd like. Maybe chicken soup, or we could order pizza from the place on 93rd…"

"It was three months after Joe died," she says suddenly.

Bobby's mouth closes abruptly.

"I'd never lived alone," she continues. "I was 29-years-old, and we'd been married since college, and I'd never lived alone. And the house was so, so empty." He places a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she tenses. He carefully pulls back. "I couldn't stand to be there. I couldn't sleep there, I…I couldn't even stay there. In that bed, where we…I couldn't be in that apartment."

She reaches for the hot chocolate and wraps her small palms around the warm ceramic. "I started sleeping at the precinct. I was working vice then, and I…we'd be out all night, on the street, and then I'd nap in the crib during the day. I couldn't sleep much there either, but…" She shrugs. "At least I couldn't smell him. And when I woke up there, I didn't expect Joe to be…" She stops and takes a deep shuddery breath.

"They wouldn't let me work seven shifts a week," she says softly. She takes a sip of the hot chocolate, then places the mug back on the end table. "I asked, but they…my captain wanted to make me take time off, they all tried, but…I just couldn't go home."

She stops talking for a moment, and Bobby studies her face, wondering if she is going to continue. "I started drinking a lot," she finally says, clutching her hands tightly together. "On the nights when I wasn't working, I was drinking. And it was like…" She trails off and shakes her head painfully. "It was like I had to. Because when I was working I could forget about him, you know? And I could just concentrate on finding johns and staying warm in those little skirts. But then on the nights I wasn't working, I just…"

She shakes her head again, and turns to look at Bobby for the first time. Her eyes are filled with tears, but she successfully holds them at bay. "I was so alone," she whispers.

Bobby can't sit still anymore, can't sit two feet away from her as if they are discussing work or the weather or politics. He leaps across the chasm and gathers her into his arms. She lets him hold her for a minute, leaning her head against his chest. Then, gathering her strength, she pulls away. "I can't do this like that," she says softly.

He reaches for her hand and she nods. He squeezes gratefully.

She hunches forward, her shoulders tensing. "It happened on January 16th," she says abruptly. "It was below freezing out. I was working 9th Avenue, but…it was so cold. No one was out and…we were all shivering. They called us in by 11:00, and I tried to go home, and then I went back to the precinct and tried to sleep in the crib, but I…"

She chews on her lip and runs her free hand through her hair anxiously. "I just couldn't sleep," she whispers. "I was so tired, and I couldn't sleep, and I thought that if I could just have a few drinks it would go away. And I'd be okay."

"Why didn't you go home?" he blurts out suddenly. "To your parents, or to your sister or someone."

Alex shrugs and raises her eyes to the ceiling, as if doing so will keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. "They thought I was so tough," she says thoughtfully. "I didn't cry at the funeral, and they…I just told them I was okay. I didn't want them to worry. I didn't want to cry in front of them." She chews on her lower lip.

"So what happened?" Bobby asks quietly, after a long moment of silence.

"I went to a bar," she says emptily. "In Chelsea, way out on the west side. It was pretty sketchy, but…" She trails off and shakes her head at her stupidity. "It was the kind of place where no one paid attention to you. Where you could sit on a barstool in a corner and get drunk on cheap vodka and no one would say anything to you." She slips her hand out of his. "The kind of place where you could be alone."

She stands up and walks a few steps away, and he aches at the loss. "I didn't have that much to drink," she says, and although she tries to be steady he can hear the tremor in her voice. "Just a few shots, and I didn't think I was that drunk. I thought I was okay." Her back is to him, and he watches as her shoulders tighten and hunch. His breath catches in his throat.

"I was walking down 10th Avenue," she says, and her whole body is shaking now. He watches in near-terror. "I wasn't that drunk, I really wasn't, but I shouldn't have been there. It's so dark there, and I didn't hear him…" She chokes, and Bobby grips the couch to keep himself from going to her. "He came up behind me, and I didn't hear him."

"No," Bobby says softly, as if he can stop the attack from happening, as if he can still protect her from the horror and evil she has lived through.

She braces herself against the wall, her face still hidden from him. "He had a knife," she whispers, and all Bobby can hear is the horrible pain in her words. "He told me he'd kill me if I screamed. I—I'd left my gun at the precinct. I tried to fight him, but he slashed my arm through my coat." She takes a few shallow, choking breaths.

"The scar," Bobby whispers. "You said…you said it was from falling off your bike. From when you were little."

She is crying now, although she is trying to muffle her sobs. "It wasn't," she chokes. "Okay? I lied. I didn't want you to know, and I lied." She presses her body into the wall as if she might be able to disappear into it.

"Alex," Bobby starts, standing to go to her, to comfort her, to stop her. "You don't have to…"

She turns around harshly, abruptly. "Don't talk," she snaps. Chastened, he looks away from her angry eyes. "He dragged me into an alley," she continues, and her voice is no longer weepy but bitter and pained. "He ripped my pants off, and I…I tried to kick, but he had a knife to my throat and I was so…"

She stops talking for a long, agonizing moment and leans against the wall for support. He screws up his courage and looks up at her face again. He cannot read her. "Scared," she says finally. "I've just never been so scared."

Alex sinks down onto the plush cream carpet. "And then he raped me," she says with a shrug. "He raped me, and then he got up and left and I…I lay in that alleyway until the sky started to get light. It was freezing, but I just couldn't bring myself to get up. And then I…I didn't want anyone to see me so I…I got up and walked back to our apartment. We lived on the Lower East Side then."

She closes her eyes, remembering, and Bobby watches in horrified fascination. "I had to go home," she explains. "I couldn't go to the precinct, because they would ask questions, and I…I just couldn't handle it. So I went home, and it was okay that Joe wasn't there because I wouldn't have wanted him to see me like that.

"I showered," she says thoughtfully. "Five or six or seven times…I can't remember. I was so cold, and I felt so, so dirty. And then I went to Planned Parenthood, and I told them I'd had unprotected sex, and I got the morning after pill and STD tests." She rubs the scar on her arm distractedly. "They asked about the bruises. They wanted me to tell them…what happened, but I…" She shakes her head. "I didn't want to be a victim."

She leans her head back against the wall, and then turns to look at him tiredly. "And then I went to work, and…and put on the hooker clothes, and tried to walk the street. But I couldn't handle it, so I put in for a transfer to Major Case." She shrugs. "They thought it was cause of Joe. And then I found the house in Rockaway…I moved a month later." Her brown eyes bear into him, and he feels as if his cheeks are on fire under her gaze. "I've never told anyone."

They sit in silence, watching each other. Bobby is shaking, tears streaming unbidden and unchecked down his cheeks. "Alex," he says, finally, desperately, when the silence becomes too much to handle.

"So now you know," she says abruptly. "That's what happened to me."

Bobby doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to say. He watches her turn her eyes away from him to stare vacantly at the wall. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispers finally. "Why—why didn't you want me to know?"

"I didn't want you to treat me differently," she says softly. She picks unconsciously at her nails. "I didn't want you to think I was weak."

He is across the room and kneeling in front of her in two strides. She turns away from him. "Look at me, Alex," he says gently. She avoids his eyes, and he takes her face in his warm palms. "Alex," he says again. "Alexandra, look at me, please." She finally allows her eyes to slide into contact with his.

"Bobby, don't," she whispers.

"You are the strongest person I have ever met," he says, his voice unwavering. He refuses to let go of her eyes, and she continues watching him, transfixed. "You are not a victim. You are a survivor. And what you went through—Alex, that doesn't change anything."

She turns away from him, and he lets her go. "I didn't want you to know," she says evasively. "I never, ever wanted to talk about it. I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened.

"Talking about it is supposed to make you feel better," Bobby says wryly. He sits down beside her, leaning against the wall.

Alex laughs mirthlessly. "I don't think anything could ever make me feel better," she says.

He nods thoughtfully. "Can I?" he asks. She looks at him questioningly. "I want this to be something we can talk about," he tells her. "I want you to be able to tell me about your nightmares…I want you to be able to tell me about Joe."

"I didn't think you would want to hear about Joe."

He shrugs. "He was a part of you. And you're a part of me." She nods, contemplating that. "This case," he says hesitantly. "It affected you." She nods again, unsure of where he is going. "Why this case?" he asks. "We've worked rape cases before. You've always seemed…okay."

Alex shrugs. "We caught the case on January 16th," she says. "The day it…happened. I just knew…getting that case on that day…" She chews thoughtfully on her thumb. "I don't know why this case more than the others. I guess the others affected me too. But this case, I just…I couldn't get any distance from it. And I couldn't help thinking about…about what if…"

"What if you could have done the same?" he finishes, and she nods, hanging her head in shame.

"And then it just takes you back there," she continues. "And I kept thinking about what I could have done to stop it, and how I could have fought back, and whether I should have reported it, and…it was seven years ago, Bobby! But this whole week it's been like…like I was right there again, in that alleyway."

She leans her head back against the wall. "You trusted me," she whispers. "And I didn't want you to know how I couldn't even protect myself."

She opens her mouth to continue and he swiftly takes her face in his palms again. "Alex, stop it."

She opens her mouth to say something, and he holds a finger to her lips. "You had your chance to speak, now it's my turn," he says gently. "I love you," he tells her. "I know I haven't said that before, but it isn't because I haven't loved you since the day I met you."

Tears drip from her eyes into his long fingers. He leans forward and captures her mouth in his.

"I love you," he says again, running his fingers through her hair. He will say it over and over and over again if he has to, over and over until she believes it. "I trust you implicitly. I trust you with my life. Nothing that happened to you, and nothing that you did or didn't do could ever, ever change that." He presses his lips to her forehead. "I want to know everything about you," he tells her. "I want to understand you, because I love you. Because you're everything to me."

She leans into his chest, and he wraps an arm around her and pulls her closer to him. "I love you," she says softly, and joy floods his heart. He kisses the top of her head gently. "Are we going to be okay?" she asks, and he can hear the trepidation in her voice.

He pulls her into his lap and kisses her hard. "We're going to be fine."

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I think that just may be the end. I may write an epilogue if I'm feeling creative, but…well, we'll see. I hope you've all enjoyed! Thanks for the reviews and kind words!


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